


Cedar and Bergamot

by Aikori_Ichijouji



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angsty Introspection, Baz being overdramatic as usual, Growing Up, M/M, Oneshot, teenage worries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji
Summary: There have been countless nights I’ve awakened in a cold sweat with traces of it still in my nose. On the unfortunate occasions that I can even taste it in my mouth, I always gag. It reeks of blood and dust and mouldering rot and--“Death,” Fiona supplied once, many years ago, from behind an exhale of cigarette smoke. “Vampires smell of death.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	Cedar and Bergamot

There are a number of things I can recall about the day my mother and I lost our lives. Simon always tells me I’m being needlessly overdramatic when I phrase it like that. (True, but such is my way.) However the fact still remains; the day I was bitten by a vampire was the day I died. And on that day, above all the other painful memories my mind and heart refuse to let me forget, I will always remember one thing: the smell.

It stifled the room when the vampires swept into the nursery and it only got stronger when my mother’s blue flames turned them to piles of ash. The smell of the vampire who bit me still lingers in my senses and chooses to rear its ugly head from time to time. It’s a bloody olfactory nightmare, both literally and figuratively. There have been countless nights I’ve awakened in a cold sweat with traces of it still in my nose. On the unfortunate occasions that I can even taste it in my mouth, I always gag. It reeks of blood and dust and mouldering rot and—

“Death,” Fiona supplied once, many years ago, from behind an exhale of cigarette smoke. “Vampires smell of death.”

I can always count on her to cut to the quick so fast it starts to bleed.

I tried to put it out of my mind for the majority of my childhood (I _did_ learn to repress things from a frightfully young age, after all). They were just words from my barmy aunt. At first. By the time I approached my early teens, they became an obsession. Puberty will do that to you.

Adolescence is cruel to everyone. Suddenly your limbs are longer than you remember and you’re bashing about like an unhinged puma. Hair decides to stop growing on just your head and branches out into new frontiers. I’m assuming I avoided the acne and pimple stage purely because of my undeadness. Of course, I did not avoid the voracious hunger. For most boys, it was the need to cram five cheese toasties into their face as quickly as possible. For me, it was the need to soil my clothes, face, and hands with blood whilst clumsily draining a wood pigeon in the garden.

All of that I could handle. (Mostly. I won’t get into my periodic snits over the fact that life in general was ‘just too much’ because I clearly still have them, so it wasn’t just a phase.) What I could not handle was body odour. My vampirism had finally manifested and the dread set in. All I could hear whenever I took a cursory whiff of myself were Fiona’s words.

“Vampires smell of death.”

Who was the barmy one now? 

To make matters worse, I had no one I could ask about it. My insecurities were not a topic for discussion with Dev and Niall. My father and stepmother had gotten quite good at ignoring the trumpeting, blood-stained elephant in the room. Fiona wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I paid her and would, most likely, confirm my fears for a laugh. Just my shitty luck.

So I had to work it out on my own. The first thing I discovered was that men’s cologne disgusted me. I’m sure it was fine for most people but my heightened senses made them unbearable. Even if no one else minded, I still had to smell me and I was not willingly giving myself a migraine for the sake of vanity. There had to be another option.

That option came in the form of a small shop I encountered when Daphne took me shopping for more trousers as I’d already outgrown the most recent ones we bought. They sold personal care products with custom blended scents that you chose yourself. My stepmother was already busy cooing with a saleslady over a bottle of geranium hand lotion. Meanwhile I pulled droppers out of the dozens of glass bottles that lined the back counter to see if anything struck my fancy.

Lavender was immediately right out. It was too strong and, after a bit, not unlike the smell of a freshly painted room. Jasmine posed a similar problem as it smelled quite lovely at first, but the scent soon reminded me of someone trying to perfume the loo after a massive shit. I kept going until I came across two strong candidates. Cedar, rich and woody. Bergamot, sharp and bright. The perfect combination for a Pitch, I thought. I got one of every product they offered.

I returned to Watford that fall fully kitted out in toiletries. Because I was not about to let Simon fucking Snow tell me that I smelled of death. Unless I’d been in the catacombs. That place smelled enough on its own that I had loads of plausible deniability.

“But I like the way you smell,” Simon tells me now, his head tucked between my shoulder and neck as we lie on his bed. “You don’t smell like that to me at all.”

“What do I smell like then?” I ask even though I expect to be compared to some food he adores, like sour cherry scones or butter or roast beef.

He draws in a long breath through his nose and it tickles. I’ve half a mind to push him away, but I need to be close to him more than I need to escape his hound-like exploration of my neck. I wait in silence for his appraisal, there’s no witty quip on the tip of my tongue. He’s quiet for a moment as well, then he just hums in that soft way he does when he’s settled into bed for the night.

“Home.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was keeping me awake and demanding that it be written. As that's a thing that happens fairly often, I suppose I'll have to live with it.


End file.
